Waxing Light
by noenigma
Summary: Tag/alternate ending to Falling Darkness.
1. Chapter 1

_This one's for Ailsa Craig because she asked for it and waited patiently and never whined even though it took its own time coming._

_Certain episodes demand to be looked at more closely. In the fandom circles I've been in before, they're the ones that it seems like every writer has to try his or her hand at…here that doesn't seem to be as much the case, but still Falling Darkness is most definitely one of those episodes. I've been itching to get my hands on it since I first saw it, and finally, I've managed to chase it down. Not sure I've captured it and won't say I'm finished with it, but…_

**Waxing Light**

The scream cut through the air and there was no question that something dreadful was happening out there in the dark. Something that he could have stopped…if he'd only been quicker and if he'd only trusted her as he should have.

He couldn't stop, couldn't be the one who pulled her out…it was his fault she was there. His fault.

"Get her out of there!" he shouted to Hathaway, leaving him to do what he couldn't and going on alone into the dark, crumbling building.

Her assailants had fled into the shadows, but as far as Laura was concerned the nightmare was far from over. Her screams and the cascade of falling dirt had obscured all other noises. She hadn't heard Robbie's shout to James, hadn't registered that the dirt had quit raining down on her.

She knew only her terror, the dirt in her eyes, her throat, nose, and ears, the weight of it bearing down on her, the tightness in her chest that might be the pressure of the dirt already overcoming her body's ability to continue to breathe under its horrible weight or only her own terrified screams robbing her of air…

Even after James had catapulted himself down into the grave with her, she was beyond recognizing she was no longer alone. He pulled her out from under the suffocating dirt and still she didn't know he was there.

"It's James…it's James! You're all right! You're all right!" he shouted in an attempt to reach through her screams, but she didn't hear him…the blood rushing in her ears coupled with the dirt clogging them made hearing impossible even once she'd caught sight of his pale face in the faint light. She read the words on his lips more than heard them and they took a long time to sink in.

The understanding that she was alive and staying that way took even longer…that wouldn't come until after the frenzied, frantic work of the arriving med team brought her shaking and slipping into shock out of the grave, after the hours spent sedated while casualty cleared her airway and other orifices of the suffocating dirt that had threatened to choke the life out of her, after losing the night and into the next day…only then did she wake to discover she was alive.

Her mother had arrived by then, nodding off in the chair beside her hospital bed, looking smaller and older than Laura thought possible. It had been to her mother's home she'd gone after the doctor arrived and released her. The thought of going back to her own, the site of her abduction, filled her with a fear and dread that she was not yet ready to face.


	2. Chapter 2

"I'm sorry, sir, she's been released," the woman at the desk told Lewis when he arrived to see her. Well, good news that, eh? Of course, it was. And not unexpected. He'd stalled in coming. In facing her, in looking into her eyes and seeing her rejection and condemnation. It might as well have been him shoveling that dirt down on her, burying her under his doubts and reservations. If he would have held onto his belief in her…

Would it have made a difference? Would they have arrived at the finish line any faster? Could they have stopped the madness that had put her into that grave? He'd never know.

Because he had doubted her. He'd read those twenty-some year old words, and he'd thought she was like all too many others he ran into in the course of his job. Hiding the truth in fear of shame or guilt, risking the future to cover up the past, lying regardless of the cost. How many had he seen die because people just wouldn't fess up to some indiscretion, mistake, or sin? Too many.

And, in the hurt and anger he'd felt believing even she would lie to him, he'd laid deaths at her feet. Blamed her for the deaths of Ligeia, Rowena, and Mary Gwilliam and the attack on Dr. Jacoby. And all the time, she'd played a straight hand, she'd spoken the truth; he should have believed her, continued to speak up for her before Hathaway and Innocent. He should have seen that she was the one about to be sacrificed on someone else's altar of lies.

Instead, he'd questioned, interrogated—all but accused her even. He could still remember her silence in the street, the look she'd given him as she'd gotten into her car. He hadn't known what to make of it then. He'd feared it was a silent confession; an admission there was something else he should know but that she'd been unwilling to tell him. Or unable… he'd not suspected her of protecting herself then but someone else from the house on Nethermoor Avenue.

He knew better now. She'd been silent in the face of his distrust, his belief that he needed to ask, his lack of faith in her. He'd blamed her, but he had been the betrayer…instead of voicing his doubt, he should have been warning her to be careful, begging her to go somewhere safe, demanding she get out of harm's way. He'd failed her there. Badly.

And then the house. She couldn't have known how long he'd resisted following that line of enquiry. He should have asked her whereabouts from the beginning; he'd known, Hathaway, and Innocent—they'd all known. Hobson, too, if the truth were out, he supposed. Still, it had been a hard thing to do...something he'd regret to the end of his days. He should have left it to Hathaway as the lad had suggested—well, he should have turned the case over as soon as Hobson walked into that house after the girl had died and told him it was where she and Ligeia had lived as students. Innocent or guilty, it was apparent at that moment that she was at least peripherally involved…

He'd had no business keeping the case. But…what was he to do? Remove himself on personal grounds, when there was nothing between the two of them? Least not beyond friendship and work…what would the chief super have made of that? What would Hobson have made of it?

That he fancied her? Well, yeah, he did. He reckoned she wasn't exactly unaware of that. But…it wasn't going anywhere, was it? She was a friendly face, a listening ear, a kind heart, a wise counsellor… not a lover, not a girlfriend, not someone he had any business excusing himself from a case over. And that's how it had been almost from the moment he'd arrived back in Oxford off of special assignment. If it had been going to go anywhere else, and he'd thought it might at times, it would have by now.

No, she saw him as a friend and nothing else. Whatever possibilities he might wish were there—they weren't for her. And he'd have done neither of them a favour by broadcasting that to all and sundry by taking himself off the case. Still, his feelings for her had interfered with the investigation and almost gotten her killed.

So, no, he hadn't been eager to look into her face and see the hurt he'd caused her reflected in her eyes. Hathaway had almost pushed him out the door, insisting on finishing up the last of the interviews and typing up the reports himself.

His sergeant was a bit too much of a romantic for Lewis' tastes. He'd have had the two of them running off to Gretna Green if he could have managed it. Almost as bad as the chief superintendent trying to set him up with all of her divorced, widowed, and single woman friends. Innocent didn't know he fancied the doctor, but Hathaway certainly did…always with a comment and a smirk pushing at him to do something about it.

"Have you told Dr. Hobson? How you feel about her?" Hathaway had asked him one day as they'd left the mortuary after picking up a report.

"Dr. Hobson, as I'm sure you are aware, is a very intelligent, very beautiful woman, Sergeant. A good many men fancy her…she wouldn't welcome me joining the queue I'm sure."

"You never know…"

Well, maybe. But he'd thought it might be better that way. If he forced her to have to come up with a nice and kind way of telling him 'sorry, not interested'…well, he might spoil what they did have. And, though he'd tried not to acknowledge it or give it substance in his awareness, he knew, now when he'd thrown it all away, that he needed it.

He'd been all so alone after Val had died. Miserably alone. Worse than Morse, brooding and drinking himself to an early grave. He wasn't cut out for it. Hobson with her welcoming smile, her readiness to slip out for a natter when he needed to confide in someone or a word of advice, her companionship, had helped fill the hole Val had left in his life. If she'd…well, if she'd fancied being more than just a friend, he would have been more than pleased; but she didn't and he'd accepted that and been thankful for what she was willing to offer him instead.

And now, he'd thrown it all away. And, even so, running through his head like an unending refrain was, "Thank God, she's alive," because he'd feared…been sick with it running through her empty house yelling her name, driving to the old hospital with the understanding of all that had gone and was still going on becoming clear, hearing her screams in the darkness—he'd thought they'd get there too late, that she'd be dead. That he'd be on his own all over again. Keeping her alive had been all he'd thought of then…

Now though, there was the hard and bitter truth to face. He'd distrusted and endangered her, and in doing so…he'd lost her from his life. Even rejoicing in her survival, he mourned her loss as a friend. She'd want no truck with him now that she knew he couldn't be trusted to believe in her. He should have known. He should never have doubted her.

He stepped out of the hospital doors and paused in indecision for a moment. Drive to her house, face the loss of her friendship, be a man…or go back to work. Tell Hathaway she'd gone off home and he reckoned it was best to let her rest. Oh, yeah. That would go over well with the lad, wouldn't it? Hobson or Hathaway?

And that brought him to the knowledge that he could very well still lose Hathaway over this mess as well as Hobson. As much as he needed Hobson's friendship, he needed Hathaway's. Maybe more even. For it was Hathaway who got him through the long hours of work as well as offered companionship through the long evenings. It wouldn't sit well with Hathaway, him not making things right—or at least trying to make things right with Hobson. He'd expect more of Lewis than that.

So. Off to Hobson's then, and best not be slow about it. He couldn't lollygag all day; duty called. And, it would only get worse the longer it took to see her and know whether the damage he'd done to their friendship was irreparable or not. And then there was the fact that he was still sick with it.

That fear and dread that she was hurt. Ahh, he knew the hospital wouldn't have let her go if she wasn't up for it, but…he'd been stuck in the building, holding that out-of-control, poor girl until help arrived, and then—as always, there was much to be done at the scene. There was never time to walk away, to say, "I can't do this now…I'll tell you in the morning what happened here. It'll keep."

And so the ambulance had taken her off before he'd had a chance to see for himself that she really was fine. Hathaway had gone with her, held her hand and murmured words of comfort—please, God, anyway. His sergeant lacked a bit in bedside manner—not in human feeling, but in the expressing of it. Still, Hathaway had gone with her and whether he'd known how to give her the comfort she'd needed or not, he'd been there for her.

It was Lewis who hadn't.


	3. Chapter 3

She spent two days in her childhood home. Haunting it like a frail, quiet imitation of the spirited, willful girl she'd been when she'd lived there. Like the dreams haunted her.

The glass shattering in the door, the hand reaching through to undo the lock. She hadn't gone easy. She'd hit that hand with…whatever was in reach, she supposed. It had all been so fast, so unexpected. And, yet, there'd been a constable outside, Robbie's solemn 'Laura, be careful' as he'd walked her to her car after leaving Ellen's bedside, the ominous turn of events…that shattered glass, that man bursting through the door and chasing her through the hall, grabbing her, pulling her from the house, throwing her into the van—it should not have been unexpected. She should have been ready, she shouldn't have depended on the man outside, she shouldn't have expected Robbie to do the impossible and make it all go away.

No, she should have known there was worse to come. Worse. _"Laura, we've known each a long time…as colleagues, and…well—friends, I hope there's nothing else you can think of that I ought to know?" _

She hadn't thought there was much that could be worse than that. Ligeia dead, Ellen in hospital, unconscious and battered, and Robbie telling her in his kind, soft-spoken way that he didn't trust her, that he believed her capable of lying to him. And her standing there, not able to come up with a word in her own defense because if he of all people could believe her somehow involved in this mess, if he…

If it had been the other way, even if he was caught with blood on his hands and every shred of evidence pointed to him as a murderer—she'd never have believed it of him. She'd never have questioned his integrity or the truth of his words. Never. She'd had nothing to say in answer to his question, because if she'd opened her mouth the pain of it would have come out in hot, stinging tears.

And the interview at her table over the phone calls. Him asking her—her—for her alibi…she'd been as hurt as she'd been angry. More even. She'd covered it with indignation and exasperation, but the interview had cut her deeply.

Yet, she'd known, even if she wouldn't have heard the reluctance in his voice, that he'd had no choice. "It's procedure," he'd said, pleading with her to understand that he wanted no part in what he was doing. And she had understood. She'd heard through the car window Innocent's demands that he question her as long ago as that day in Nethermoor Avenue. She knew he'd fought against the need to ask those questions. Still. They'd hurt.

That was a good part of what his job was about…asking questions no one wanted to answer, facing their indignation and lies and stonewalling, and what must he have thought of her? Hadn't made it easy for him, had she? She'd known he hadn't wanted to be there anymore than she had, and yet, she'd put the blame on him.

That hadn't stopped him coming for her. Him and James, white knights in suit coats racing to her rescue. She owed them her life.

More than that, she owed him an apology. How would he ever trust her again? And trust, to Robbie Lewis, was just about everything. Lies and cover-ups—he saw the damage they did every day at work; he needed to be able to believe the people around him were different than that. But, she'd stood there silently and let him think who knew what, and then she'd come close to spitting at him when she should have just accepted his questions had to be asked. She wasn't one of those people who would lie and cover things up…she'd always been prepared to face up to whatever she'd done and take the consequences, but how was he to know that? She'd had nothing to hide, but she'd stormed and thrown up a protective front before his questions just as though she did…

And, all the time, all he'd wanted to do was stop a murderer before he struck again, protect her, and keep her safe. Safe. She shivered and wondered if she'd ever feel safe again. That shattered glass, that hand through the door—they'd only been the beginning…

"How long do you think you can hold your breath?" the man had asked and then he'd sent her crashing down to land with a rib-cracking thud against the hard dirt and there were dirt walls surrounding her and then that first shovelful of dirt and she'd known…they were going to bury her. _Alive. _

She had been at her job far too long not to know that some deaths were harder than others. And she was so unready to die. But, that hadn't mattered. The dirt had kept coming, despite her screams, despite her frantic efforts to escape. It had been relentless, and slow…one shovelful at a time, a deliberate, malicious, unstoppable death.

She'd always thought she'd face death well enough. An old—not friend exactly, but they were well-enough acquainted; something to resist and avoid, of course, but with familiarity came understanding and with understanding a certain fearlessness—contempt even, perhaps. She knew its every trick, every process, every step as it took the life from a body; she'd never expected to give it the satisfaction of letting it taste her terror at its approach. She'd never been a coward; she would face it quietly, stoically like she'd faced all the other hard things in her life. No need to turn and run, to cry and blather in the face of death.

But, when it came for her, she'd screamed and fought; wept and despaired. It was the sound of her own screams echoing through her dreams that haunted her more than the weight of the dirt or its bite as it came rushing down to beat against her.

Death was for those who were done living, but in some ways, she had never gotten around to making a start at it. That's what she'd known lying in that grave, being buried alive…she wasn't ready to die. Not that she, of all people, didn't know that readiness had nothing to do with the process. Ready or not, when the time came, there was no stopping it.

And, yet, they had stopped it. She had survived. She was alive. Unfortunately, it was taking time for her to believe it…the doctors had sent her home with a prescription. She could have dulled her fears, given herself time before she faced them—but, she'd been that route before, hadn't she?

"I took a Valium and had an early night," she'd had to confess, and she'd hadn't liked that at all. She'd always seen herself as a strong person; always portrayed herself as a strong person—what had he and Hathaway thought hearing that? So. She hadn't filled the prescription.

Who was Laura Hobson, if she wasn't the strong, fearless person she'd always believed herself to be?

"I'm sorry," she'd apologized to him when he'd climbed into the ambulance beside her after she'd fainted in his arms…that had been good for her self-image, eh? And he'd assured her it was perfectly normal under the circumstances. Still, she'd sat there sniffing back tears and wiping her face on his handkerchief, and felt utterly helpless and ridiculous. It wasn't like she and Ligeia were even close…

And that had been bad enough, but the silence in the street, not even able to open her mouth and speak up for herself for fear she'd burst into tears…and the screams. She'd really let herself down there in that graveyard.

"Phone call, Laura," her mother said. "That's you, darling."

Laura shook herself out of her preoccupation and fumbled for her ringing mobile. It had gone to missed calls before she quite got to it.

Hathaway. Hathaway, who had heard her screams and held her while she'd sobbed uncontrollably. How was she supposed to be able to talk to him if she'd yet to come to grips with those screams herself? Hathaway with his calm assurance in an eternity—he wouldn't go down screaming, would he? Curiously, perhaps; regretfully, maybe; or possibly, even eagerly…but not kicking and screaming. She couldn't imagine talking to him knowing he'd seen her like that; weak, terrified, and very much out of control.

That was her fault, not his. It didn't give her the right to leave him hanging. He'd be worried about her—had she thought to tell anyone where she'd gone off to? No, she'd heard her mother's offer, and she'd taken it up gratefully and never given a thought to what work or friends might think about her disappearing. Or the police—'don't leave town without informing us'—wasn't that what they always told those involved in a violent crime? There'd be interviews and affidavits and who knew what all. She hadn't given it a thought. Just gratefully clutched her mother's hand like a frightened, little girl and ran home.

She saw Hathaway's missed call hadn't been the first. There were several. She weakly smiled at her mum and said, "I guess…I should take these. I'll be in my room."

"Probably best," her mum agreed. "I'll see about tea…if you're up to eating later."


	4. Chapter 4

It was not the pink, frilly room from her childhood. It had been one of those once, a long time ago. But she'd outgrown such things soon enough. The pink had given way to ocean blue with dolphin posters that had yielded to summer green and horses and finally the no-frills tans and browns that had suited her studious nature through her teen years. There were on the high shelves lining the walls remnants of each of those bygone stages: a rag doll her grandmother had made her dressed in a frilly, embroidered apron with tiny flowers; a blown-glass dolphin her father had found for her on one of his trips; a ceramic colt with a missing forefoot—her first and last attempt at painting; and books, piles and piles of them, some carefully stacked and some tossed rather haphazardly as though she'd planned to get back to them one day.

She'd been sure of who she was when she'd lived in this room. Her parents' only child, loved and somewhat pampered; smart and capable, on her way to med school and on from there; someone ready to face life and look it squarely in the eye…

She felt a stranger in it now.

Quickly, she scrolled through the missed calls, deleting those that didn't matter, putting off listening to the murmured words of concern, the sympathetic and vague offers of help should she need it, the worried rumblings of her second assuring her she could take all the time she needed but about the Randolph autopsy… In the end, she did listen to them, even called back the ones from work that couldn't wait. Found to her surprise that the details of the Randolph PM were still clear enough in her mind that she had no trouble verifying what needed clearing up. Most of the calls were quickly handled. Just Hathaway's then, and Robbie's.

She'd felt some of her old confidence returning as she dealt with the other calls. She was capable. Sure this had gotten to her. Bound to, wasn't it? But, that didn't mean she still wasn't up to facing her life. No. She would kick the nightmares and be her old self in no time. Back from the grave so to speak…

Only. Hathaway who'd held her while she wept and seen her terror and her weakness; and Robbie who…well, he was the one she'd wanted to hold her—if someone had to see her trembling and out-of-control, he was the one she would have wanted there for that. She could trust his discretion (just like he'd said in the street, begging her to tell him whatever she could so he could stop the killings). More than that…well, whatever hopes she'd had for that—she'd nailed the coffin shut over when she'd refused to talk to him, when she'd forced him to ask her what she knew he needed to know and blamed him for it.

But. She wasn't going to run from either of them. Couldn't if she wanted her own screams to quit haunting her sleep…she wasn't that screaming, terrified person down in that grave anymore. She refused to be.

So. Hathaway first because…well, she could afford to lose his respect and good will. It would hurt. Robbie's sergeant had become a big part of her life when he became part of Robbie's. The three of them spent a lot of time together, drinking a few rounds to unwind before heading off to their individual homes, sharing their days and jokes and thoughts. In addition, Robbie had talked to her a great deal about his concerns for Hathaway when things were difficult for the young man or when Robbie had been at his wit's end over knowing how best to deal with things that came up between him and his sergeant. She felt as close to Hathaway as anyone besides her mum, Ellen, and Robbie himself. She valued his quiet strength and innate intelligence and most of all his loyalty to Robbie. But, if she'd lost him through her weak and embarrassing display, if instead of his respect she now had only his pity…that would be easier to live with than if it were Robbie she'd lost.

Listening to Hathaway's calls one after another, she was struck with the differences between the two…they mirrored her own recovery.

"Laura?" his first call had started out. He'd sounded unsure, perhaps even shaken, and his usually carefully thought-out message had been jumbled and hesitant. "Just heard you'd gotten out already…hope you are all right. Wanted you to know—though I hope you already do—you can call…if you need anything. You know…well, I don't suppose it—well, call if I can help. All right?"

By the last though, he'd sounded much like the Hathaway she knew. "Dr. Hobson, it's James Hathaway again. I'm sure you're aware there are a few loose ends we need to tidy up before we can close the books…if you can get back to either Inspector Lewis or myself before the weekend, it would be most helpful. Probably best if it were Lewis. I know he is wanting to talk to you."

The pity she'd been afraid she'd hear in his voice was absent from both the unguarded warmth and concern in that first call and the studied calm in the last. There was worry and sympathy in both, but not pity. Sympathy she could handle…well, not handle exactly as it moved her to tears in her admittedly vulnerable state. But, pity…she was having quite enough trouble revising her view of herself without being ambushed by pity.

What was there in its place, through both the calls, was Hathaway's concern. She realized yet again that she'd been a bit irresponsible in running off without a word. If it had been James in her situation, she knew she and Robbie would both be beside themselves.

With more than a twinge of guilt, she put a call through to him.

"Laura!" he answered, obviously having seen her name on the screen before answering. "Are you all right?"

"Yes. I'm…well, still shaken up a bit, but I'm fine."

"You've had us in quite a state."

"I—it wasn't on purpose. I was…I went home with my mum."

"Yes, we found that out eventually…we're not detectives for nothing you know," he said and the relief in his voice came clearly through to her.

"Yes…and for that I'm very grateful, to you both."

There was a moment of grave silence from Hathaway, and then, "Yeah. Well, I'm sorry it took us so long…and I'm sorry, I—Lewis never doubted you, but I—"

"Let's not worry about that now, eh? I really am grateful…for what you did. Thank you, for being there when…"

"Of course," he said. Where he'd sounded troubled and guilty earlier over his perceived weakness, he was matter-of-fact with hers. "It was dreadful, wasn't it? I don't know about you, but I've had a few nightmares since…horrible, and I wasn't even the one down there. But, you really are all right, aren't you?"

And there it was, even Hathaway with his calm assurance and studied indifference understood what she'd been struggling against. It was a horrible thing that had happened to her, no one would have faced it calmly and quietly; kicking and screaming had been her only recourse. That didn't make her a coward, only human.

"Will be," she answered him quietly and though it was more a wish than a fact she was surprised to hear it come out a certainty. Hearing the confidence in her voice made her believe the truth of those words. She might have faltered a bit, but she wasn't staying down. "I think I'll be coming back tomorrow. Not to work maybe, give it a day or two before that, but home."

He laughed then, a small, friendly laugh. "Somehow I can't see you wandering around your house for a day or two…you'll be into work before the day's out."

She opened her mouth to deny it, but then thought better of it. He was right; she'd never be able to stand it, knocking about the house, cooling her heels, when there was work she could be doing. Even now.

"You're probably right. Now, about the—"

"We'll take care of that once you're back…it's not that important," he admitted. And she understood, the loose ends had simply been a ruse to get her to call in and assure him—them because it wouldn't just have been James who'd worried about her no matter how disappointed Lewis was in her—she was doing all right. "Have you…have you talked to Lewis?" Hathaway asked.

"Not yet, I thought I should answer your call as…well, I missed quite a few, but yours was the last to come through."

"You'll get to him soon though? He's been…worried about you."

"He's not there, I take it?" she asked though it was obvious he wasn't.

"No, got tired of pacing around here like a caged animal and went off for a walk. You might just catch him before he gets back if you'd like…listen, I know…well, it wasn't Lewis wanting to question you. He had no choice; it was—"

"Procedure. I know."

"Then you're not angry with him?"

"Angry with him? You two saved my life, how could I be mad at him?"

"That's what I thought, but…well, he thinks—well, I think he thinks—he hasn't said anything, of course…"

"What?"

"That he…well, not my business, is it? Best talk to him. Soon."

"Yes," and then she'd assured him again she'd be home the next day and they'd gotten off.

Robbie's name appeared five times on the list, but he'd only left a message the first time.

"Laura,' he'd said in his quiet voice, "call me when you can, eh?" And that had been it. What had she expected anyway? That he'd rant and rave at her for putting herself into danger when if she'd only talked to him maybe he could have made a difference? No, she hadn't expected that. That he'd gush and carry on in relief that she was ok and that it was all over? No, not that either. That he'd chide her for running off without a by-your-leave to the officer in charge of her case? No.

Then what? Well, it hadn't been what she'd expected, but what she'd hoped. And she'd known better anyway. He was fond of her, he enjoyed her company, he valued her opinion…but he wasn't in love with her. He hadn't called desperate to hear her voice and know she was ok regardless of what hard feelings had passed between them over the previous few days. She hadn't expected him to.

He hadn't jumped into that grave to pull her to safety; to hold her why she cried, to cling to her in relief and thanksgiving that she was alive. He'd sent James—or maybe James had just come on his own, she couldn't guess—but he'd gone off after his murderers, seen the case through, done his duty. She didn't doubt he'd cared whether she was all right, and if the job hadn't been still undone, he very well might have been the one to jump to her rescue, but…she swallowed down tears and tasted their saltiness in the back of her throat.

He counted her a friend, he'd told her that there in the street, but that was all he counted her…and now that she'd behaved as she had when he'd just been doing his job, well…maybe he didn't even count her that anymore.

What, oh what, was she going to do, if that were the case? Hard enough to smile and sit beside him discussing Hathaway and bodies and the call he'd had from his son knowing he only saw her as a friend when she wanted so much more than that…but if he would no longer smile at her, no longer share his stories, and eat the last of her chips—

It was a very good thing that she'd promised his sergeant she'd call him right away or she might have left it.

"Lewis," he answered, and his voice, so well-known and so loved, didn't help her keep down the tears that were struggling to erupt at any moment.

She swallowed hard before saying, "Robbie," and was surprised at how calm her voice sounded.

There was a pause then. She imagined him regrouping…he hadn't known it was her. He rarely took the time to read who was calling as he fumbled about with his mobile. Funny that. As a sergeant, he'd loved all the new doodads, chased around to the computer courses, and was always on about the wonders of the newest and latest technology. Now he kicked against any new thing, willfully refusing to be seduced by the marvels of any of them…well, life had socked the wonder right out of him. Morse, Val, and Ken…three blows too many, one right after the other had destroyed something precious in the man he'd once been.

"Laura," he finally said in a guarded voice. Well, the last time they'd talked she'd been less than happy with him; no surprise he didn't know what to expect from her end.

"Hathaway said I should get in touch…some questions from the other night?"

"Oh, aye. You've spoken to him then? He's been a bit worried, like…about you."

"We've talked."

"That's good then…"

"Listen," she said, because it was all too much, this awkward, hesitant conversation when what she wanted was his arms around her and his voice telling her everything was fine between them, that she hadn't destroyed his trust in her, that…well, it wasn't on, was it? So, "I'll be coming back tomorrow…will whatever it is keep until then?"

She sounded brusque and half put out, and she knew he heard it too when he said, "The questions will, but…I—where are you? I've some things that need saying. Be better in person…" She didn't answer right away, couldn't. "Laura?"

"I'm at my mum's…but, whatever it is—let's leave it then, shall we? Until tomorrow?" She was a coward, a bona fide coward, and the last thing she wanted was to hear whatever he had that needed saying. She'd been irresponsible, hindered if not obstructed the investigation, ran off without that by-your-leave…she'd seen him brin_g_ a constable or two down a peg when they'd been acting inappropriately at a murder scene, once heard him have a good long and hard rant over the phone at that son of his, heard of heated exchanges between him and DCI Martin Johnson and even between him and Morse. But he'd never turned his righteous indignation on her and she suddenly knew she wasn't up for it.

She'd burst into tears and not only lose him but feel the fool for it.

"That's only what? Less than an hour this time of day? I've nothing on at work…I could be there quick enough."

"Really, you don't need—"

"Best not to leave it, I think. " And so he was coming like it or not.


	5. Chapter 5

He'd spent the last two days fighting for some sort of peace. He'd been worried sick about her and about them before he'd faced her unanswered door; after…well, it hadn't gotten any easier. Decidedly not. Every fear he'd had driving over to her house after leaving the hospital had only grown with each passing hour.

He knew, intellectually, that she was fine. A grown woman, totally capable of looking out for herself, she didn't have to answer to him…though she should have known they'd need her statement, no one had warned her she had to inform them of her whereabouts. She was a free agent. Probably better she hadn't gone home anyway—the board, temporarily covering the broken glass pane in the door; the signs of a struggle he'd seen but hadn't had time to investigate that night desperately running through her house praying she was there somewhere…nah, she'd been wise to go off to her family home instead.

But, he thought, if he didn't see her soon, he'd go mad with it. He shouldn't have left it to Hathaway to get her out…but, what choice had he had? Send the lad alone into the dark, rundown hospital building to face two killers without back up? No, that was a job for the senior officer if there wasn't time to wait for reinforcements…and with all the available exits and with them already having killed again and again, he hadn't judged it safe to let Vince and Charlotte disappear into the darkness. Laura might have been the last name on their list, but—he couldn't count on it. He'd had to leave her to Hathaway.

And a good job he had. He'd come close to going over the banister himself; he wouldn't want to think of Hathaway…no. Bad enough Laura, not Hathaway too. So. He'd gone. Done his job…well, bungled it more like, but at least there'd be no more deaths added to the case books on this one. Vince—gone over into the abyss like Harry Josephs and Friday Reeves and if he never stood on top of another staircase and heard the dull thud of a body hitting the floor beneath, it would be far too soon.

His track record on the subject could have been better. Three losses, five saves; the lost had all been killers with the blood of more than one on their heads…but that only partially made him feel any better about letting Friday Reeves and Vince slip out of his hands. As for Harry Josephs—he was in no state to think about the man he'd sent off the rooftop of St. Oswald's church all those years ago. Better to think about the babe who hadn't went over and the little girls; Charlotte—he'd done her no favours when he managed to keep her from following Vince down—ah, better not to think of any of them right now.

And, he couldn't, could he? Even if he wanted to, because of Laura. Because of what she'd gone through—what Vince and Charlotte had put her through, and himself. And because of what he'd discovered about himself and his…oh, be a man, Lewis. Admit it. You don't just fancy the lass…and if you were happy enough with her friendship before—well, now that you've lost it, you know it wasn't enough. It's more than a friendly face you're wanting. Needing.

He needed to see her. Even though she hadn't sounded the least bit welcoming on the phone…needed to see her whole and healthy, alive. Needed to see if he could repair the damage he'd done her with his doubtings and suspicions, and then…well, he'd have to play the rest by ear. It couldn't be about what he wanted or needed, he'd have to leave that to her. She'd been through a lot, and if he'd taken this long to get around to seeing things clearly—he could wait for her to get her feet under her again before pushing her where she most likely didn't want to go in the first place. Still, Hathaway was probably right, as usual; he'd never know if he didn't ask.


	6. Chapter 6

She'd showered and changed and fussed about waiting for him to come. All too soon she heard the bell ring, her mother at the door, their muffled voices, and then her mother calling to her, "Laura, Inspector Lewis here to see you." She sighed and eyed the window of her room. She'd gone out it and down the wall more than once in her younger years, but talk about appearing foolish. Her luck he'd be standing under it watching her make her way down if she tried it. Better to face the music. She stood, turned to the door, and there he was.

He nodded his head in greeting.

"Robbie," she murmured.

"Your mam said I should come on up…" he explained. He rubbed a finger under his eye…how many times had she seen him do that? A hundred? A thousand? He'd been part of her life for such a long time; he'd watched her grow up into her role as forensic head, and she'd watched him grow into an inspector. To one degree or another he knew the struggles and victories she'd had along the way; and she knew his…all too well. The pain and sorrow that had lined his face and eaten away at his joy in life leaving him vulnerable and lonely. "Nice lady," he added when she wordlessly stood there looking at him.

He stuck his hands deep into his pockets and walked over to her. She sat down on the bed, but he stayed standing…waiting for an invitation like the gentleman he was, she supposed. She didn't give him one. He'd insisted on this meeting over her objections, he could stand then.

"Laura?" he asked uncertainly.

"What was it you needed to say that couldn't wait?" she asked her voice hard to keep the tears from leaching through.

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I didn't mean to…intrude…I just—"

"What?"

He frowned down at her, weighing her up she thought. Deciding best how to deal with her like a recalcitrant teenager. But that wasn't what he was doing at all she realized as soon as he started talking in a low cautious voice.

"Needed to see you. I never did…you know. After Hathaway had gotten you out. There was Charlotte and Vince and by the time things were sorted they'd already taken you away…and they wouldn't let me see you in hospital, of course…and you were gone before I was there in the morning." _He'd needed to see her. "_I went by your house, the mortuary…everywhere I could think—should have thought you'd come here, but…I wasn't thinking all that clear, was I? Hathaway figured it out, of course—you know him. I was all for coming then, but he thought I should wait for you to call…" _He'd needed to see her and he hadn't been thinking all that clearly when he'd been worried about her._

"You are all right, aren't you? The doctors said you'd be fine and all…but," he put his tongue into his cheek and looked for all the world like he frequently did when something had brought up the memories of his wife.

She swallowed and assured him she was fine.

He smiled gratefully at her and let out a puff of air, and she thought it wasn't so much at her 'I'm fine' as it was the softened tone she'd used to say it. As though he'd been afraid she'd never drop the affront to give him the time of day. "That makes me feel a bit better, then," he said.

"Only a bit?"

He gave her an awkward grimace and nodded. "Only a bit…there's all the rest still to come."

"The rest? You mean the bawling out for not just letting you do your job? Running off without letting you know where I'd gone even though I'd yet to give my statement?"

"No. None of that. The groveling apology for…well, you know."

"What? Following procedure? Pursuing enquiries? Doing your job?"

"Well, I didn't quite get the impression that's how you saw any of that."

"No. I guess you wouldn't have, but…I've come around. You can skip the groveling if you let me do the same…"

"You don't owe me an apology, Laura. All the same," he said with a small grin, "if it gets me off the hook, we can say you do."

"All right, then. All better now?"

_Author's Note: In the world of canon, I suppose he'd have to say, "I reckon so," and we'd have to leave them there having tea with her mum, not to be seen again until the memorial service; but…I didn't buy it when I saw it and I still don't. So…_

"Not to speak of."

"What? There's more?"

"Well, that's the question, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

"I guess…I'm wondering—hoping more like…if there can't be more—for us like. If you can forgive me doubting you…and if you could, well…you know—see us as something more than…ah, better we just leave, eh? Pretend I didn't say any of that."

She laughed then. And the laughter and the tears that she hadn't quite managed to swallow down both came bubbling out in a confusing muddle. "I'm not sure you did," she told him though how he could understand her through all that she didn't know. She swallowed hard and opened her eyes wide and gathered up some semblance of control before she stood and said, "But, if you were meaning to say that you want something more than being just…how did you put it? Colleagues and friends—well, I don't know about you, but I feel very much better."

"That is what I was meaning—" he looked doubtfully at her and she stepped willingly into his embrace. He clutched her almost painfully close, and she was surprised at that. "I was so afraid when I knew you were out there somewhere in the dark…and I couldn't get to you," he said, and then she understood. "I thought…you were going to die, and I'd never have a chance…never get the chance to—well, I never thought you'd be interested like—and I was afraid to take the chance. That's really why it wouldn't wait until tomorrow. I needed to—tell you. That I love you, that I don't want to lose you…that I don't know if I—"

"You don't have to," she assured him. "I'm here, very much alive, and I love you too…have done for ages now—how could you have thought I wasn't interested?" She put a hand over his mouth and said, "Don't answer that. Not now."

She kissed him then, and she thought she might have shocked his old-fashioned sensibilities a little as he pulled back and said, "We probably should remember that's your mam downstairs." She shook her head at him and laughed and that was all right because they'd have the rest of their lives to put that right.

_(What can I say? Two romantic type stories in short order—married off my oldest not quite a month ago, suppose that explains it.)_


End file.
